


Fragile

by barghest



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Canon Trans Character, Depression, Extended Metaphors, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Interior Decorating, M/M, Moving In Together, i cant believe im using that tag in the year of 2k17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 20:24:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11859009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barghest/pseuds/barghest
Summary: Robert's clumsy, and particularly hard on himself.





	Fragile

**Author's Note:**

> someone on cc requested smallmarch and uh  
> sadly i did this instead  
> :v

Damien has always been house-proud. Everything has a place, an order, a position that fits into the decor of his home. When Robert moves in, Damien shifts paintings to put up his vinyl collection, rearranging the wall so they fit perfectly. His mugs leave gaps for the ones Robert brings. A space appears in the wardrobe for Robert’s coats and shirts, drawers empty for his underwear. Damien’s careful design bends and flows like a river, and Robert feels like the rocks sticking up through the current.

“Are you sure this is fine?,” he asks, perching on the edge of Damien’s bed - he’s been here properly for two weeks, but somehow he can’t say ‘theirs’ just yet - as Damien wriggles into his binder, hair pulled up into a messy bun. Lucien moved out to college a month ago, and it wasn’t long Damien had popped the (non-marriage related) question.

“Hmm?,” Damien’s watching his reflection in his full length mirror, pushing his glasses up his nose, pushing strands of hair out of his face. He’s taking Betsy to work with him today, her hairs already woven into the fabric of his work shirt, which he has left folded neatly on the bedside chair.

Robert wants to say he looks cute this morning, but that is how he looks every morning, “is it really fine? Me moving in.”

“Of course it is,” the shirt muffles Damien a little as he pulls it over his head, “or I would not have asked you to.” He pulls his hair out of its bun, fingers gliding through the dark tangles, and Robert yearns to reach out and brush it for him. “Are you driving me to work?”

\--

The truck trundles along, soft music (Queen’s ‘I Want To Break Free’, played low and dreamy and bass heavy through Robert’s speakers) winding around them as they sit in comfortable silence. Damien’s fingers tap along to the beat on his thighs, black nail polish freshly applied the night before. He’s looking out the window, absentmindedly stroking Betsy and letting her nibble on the wristwatch Robert gave him for his last birthday.

“Are you alright to run errands today?,” he turns to Robert, placing a hand on Robert’s elbow. “Is that okay?” There’s too much softness in his voice, like he’s tiptoeing round Robert a little - which is understandable, sure, but it aches in Robert’s chest. He avoids Damien’s eyes, staring a little too hard at the road.

“Sure,” he manages a smile, “‘course I am.” Damien has never called him difficult, a burden - but Robert feels it. He doesn’t have to hear it out loud to hear it sit heavy in his bones.

“Thank you,” the truck slows as they draw level with the dog shelter, and Damien pats Robert’s arm, drawing close. “You know I am just at the other end of the phone, should you need anything,” he brushes a kiss over Robert’s cheek, squeezing his hand before he gets out. “I am always here for you.”

\--

Robert forgets that when he gets home. He’s dutiful - shopping and dry cleaning done, a parcel collected, errands complete - but drawing the curtains in the living room lets him sink into the couch unhindered by the sunshine and the warmth that comes with it. Robert flicks the television on and curls up, a blood red throw gathered about himself. Maybe he can just lie here all day (he doesn’t). Maybe he can take a nap and forget the feeling of unease that settles in his bones when he thinks of Damien coming home later to find he’s done nothing all day (he doesn’t do that either). Instead he opens the alcohol cabinet and fishes inside.

He could drag himself to the wine cellar, sure, but Robert doesn’t bother, slinking about the house’s ground floor with a bottle of whisky in hand. This bottle is his - this one he spent his own money on, so he doesn’t feel like a teenager sneaking their parents’ booze if he drinks him. (Maybe he feels like that a little anyway. Maybe it pulls his head lower and his shoulders until he doesn’t notice where he’s walking and manages to stumble into one of the pedestals that decorates corners of Damien’s home.)

The vase, fortunately, splits into five large pieces when it hits the ground. Robert swears - once, at himself for tripping, twice, when he sees the fragments on the ground, three times and more when he counts them (four, five, no, six and seven, as a large chunk disintegrates in his hands). The whisky and coke stain on his shirt forgotten, he scrambles on his knees to gather them up.

“Fuck, shit,” he cuts his hand on the vase’s cracked base, “shit,” flecks of blood infect the vase pieces and Robert bunches his shirt in his fist, pressing the fabric into the cut. He huffs quietly and grits his teeth, and stand.

Blood first - he rinses his hand in the sink, leaning on the counter a little to steady himself as he assesses the damage. He can hide the white bandage up his sleeve, if Damien asks. Bottle second - back in the alcohol cabinet, shoved near the back out of sight. Breakage third - and Damien’s quaint bat-shaped clock in the kitchen chimes five o’clock, so he just sweeps the shards together and dumps them into a bag in the back of his end of the closet.

He spits blood and toothpaste into the sink when the front door opens, the scrabble of Betsy’s paws making a beeline to the bathroom and his feet, “hey, girl.” Robert crouches down to ruffle her ears, let her smell his fresh washed hands and lick them in greeting. He grabs a fresh shirt on the way out, pulling it on, “how’s work?”

“It was good,” Damien breezes past the empty pedestal. His arms find their way round Robert’s waist, pulling him close, “I was thinking about ordering in for dinner, how does that sounds?”

\--

“Have you seen that vase from the hallway?,” Damien only brings it up three days later, when he has managed to corner Robert on the couch, a blanket enveloping both of them. “I don’t recall moving it around at all.” Robert chews particularly long on a potato, the taste turning to ash in his mouth.

“Nope, don’t think so,” he hasn’t touched the remains of the vase since he stuffed it behind an old coat of his. His fork clinks quietly as he sets it on his plate, no longer hungry.

Damien lowers the television’s volume and sets down the remote, leaning his head on Robert’s shoulder, “what ails you, Robert?”

“Huh?,” he can feign absentminded surprise all he wants, but it’s fairly see through. He can feel Betsy’s eyes on him from the other end of the couch, no doubt judging him. “Nothing’s bothering me, promise. I’m fine.” Tendrils of Damien’s hair fall over his shoulders and Robert winds some around his fingers, “something bothering you?”

“You,” or that’s what Robert could swear he hears, even as Damien takes his free hand and threads their fingers together. Damien repeats himself, “I’m worried about you.” The faces on television still move, but only white noise comes from their mouths. “Need I spell out how distant you have been?”

He doesn’t. Robert sinks lower into the couch, feeling himself begin to slip between the cushions and disappear with the lint and spare change. He feels weighed down by the shame in his chest.

“I don’t wish you to think I am angry at all,” Damien curls around him more, gently moving their plates onto the coffee table, “I would just like you to talk to me…” His words melt in Robert’s ears, a low hum that threatens to engulf him entirely like a strong undercurrent. It rises up over him like a wave and threatens to pull him under - and Damien’s arms threaten to crush the last air out of his lungs, dragging him down. He feels hot and he feels cold and he feels a tightness in his chest like hands gripping his organs. 

Robert lurches upright, bumping the forks off of the table, “I’m going out.”

“Robert?,” Damien’s voice swims back into his hearing range. “Where are you going?,” he sounds surprised, the way a small child does when you cancel their bedtime story without reason.

“Out,” is all Robert manages, and the door bangs closed on his heel.

\--

On the hill above the town, the light pollution doesn’t reach as high as the stars that litter the sky above him. Robert stares upward, the cold metal of his truck’s flatbed uncomfortable under his neck. He twists and curls himself inwards, tucking his legs up under a thin blanket he found stuffed under his seat. Along the hem is teeth marks from Betsy, and his fingertips find their way into the tiny holes, pushing at the fabric. The stars are so far away and cold.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, rattling against the truck bed. Robert curls up smaller.

His phone vibrates again, and Robert curses his shortsightedness of not just putting it on silent - he fumbles for it now, but it just vibrates out of his hand, Mary’s face flashing up on the screen. (Of course she would call. She seems telepathically linked to Damien sometimes, always materialising when he needed her.) (Maybe Damien would be better off with her instead.) 

Robert almost chokes on the bile in his thoughts, and wraps his arms round his knees, “stupid. Stupid.” His hands crawl into his hair to pull at the greys sprouting from his hairline. “Sorry,” he mumbles, to no one in particular (and to everyone, to the stars, to the people down below who can’t hear him). Robert folds in on himself, the cold night air creeping in around the tattered blanket.

Another missed call fills his screen, when he digs his phone out from the tangle of his clothing. Robert hugs the phone to his chest. He thinks of the vase.

\--

“Robert? Robert, I am so glad you finally answered, I’ve been worried--”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“Robert, I can hear in your voice,” the way Damien says his name is like music on vinyl, soft and comforting, embracing him over the crackle of the line, “that you are not fine. You have no need to lie to me, you should know that. Are you at least, physically, alright?”

“Yes.” His knife sits comfortably in his pocket, unused.

Damien’s voice floats around him, warmer than the blanket on his legs, “good. Good, I’m glad to hear that. Will you come home? Soon?”

Robert feels like a child post-tantrum, ashamed of the broken toy in his hands, “yeah.”

“Betsy and I will stay up for you. Please come soon, Robert,” he can visualize the way Damien cradles the phone in two hands like it’s a conch shell, one finger twisting the cord in worry. “I am here for you.”

Robert bites his lip, the tightness in his chest growing, “okay.”

\--

The perfume on Damien’s shoulder greets him when he comes through the door, pressed into the shirt he’s worn all day. Damien holds him close, bunching his hands in Robert’s jacket until the chill wafting in the open door gets too strong. Betsy snuffles at his feet as Damien closes the front door and Robert leans down to let her lick his hand, ruffling her coat with his fingertips. When he stands up, Damien’s arms find their way back around his waist from behind.

“Miss me?,” he tries, weakly. Damien brushes a kiss over the back of his neck.

“I am glad to have you back safe,” Damien murmurs. “Come sit with me? We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Come sit.” It’s a compelling request, and Robert nods a little, letting Damien lead him through to the living room and down onto the couch. Betsy clambers up beside them, wiggling her way onto Robert’s lap and snuffling at his hands impatiently.

Robert pets her gently, “I’m sorry.”

“For leaving?,” Damien threads an arm round his shoulder. “You came back, that is all that matters.” He pauses to inhale, and when he opens his mouth again, his voice is fragile as crystal, “I was so worried that you wouldn’t.” He seems to hesitate, before pulling Robert close again, “I was going to follow you, but I didn’t know where you would have gone, hence...hence I called Mary, and asked her, but she wasn’t sure either, I’m sorry. You don’t need to apologise.”

“I broke the vase.”

Damien pulls back just far enough to look him in the eye, “I beg your pardon?”

Robert can’t return the look, “I broke the vase that’s missing. I knocked it over. When I was a little tipsy.” He stares at his hands, hunching himself over in shame, “I hid the pieces. I am sorry.”

“Is that all?,” Damien says lightly. Robert tilts his head up just enough to see the softness on his face. “Have you wound yourself up lately over such a trivial matter as a silly vase?”

“I,” he feels stupid, and relieved, and stupid again, “suppose so.”

“You are more important than any vase, Robert,” Damien presses a kiss to his cheek, and Robert leans into it, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. “I bid you remember that, my love.”

\--

They repair the vase together - only for it to fall apart almost immediately, shattering some of the larger pieces into fragments too fiddly to salvage. Damien shovels the remains into a box and offers them to one of their neighbours beyond the cul de sac, who makes mosaics out of broken crockery. When he comes home, he kisses Robert over fresh coffee, stood in his kitchen - their kitchen, he insists aloud to Robert, theirs to share.

“You’ve gotta get me cooking more before it’s my kitchen too,” there’s lightness in Robert’s chest, as he leans over to tuck an errant strand of hair back behind Damien’s ear.

“Perfect, I am making soup. You can help me,” he holds a knife out to Robert. “You can start by dicing the potatoes.” 

They have agreed to drop by the doctor mid week, on Damien’s day off when he can offer Robert proper support. The vase has been replaced already - one of Robert’s carvings stood proudly in its place (Damien’s choice, but he cannot help but smile as he passes by). As he peels the potatoes, Robert recalls the image of himself as rocks in Damien’s riverbed, bending and disrupting the flow - but water molds and shapes too. Eventually those rocks become smooth pebbles, at one with the river around them, and he finds himself content to think of that.

**Author's Note:**

> you can pinpoint the exact moment my depression kicked in and i gave up tbh


End file.
